The Old Oak Tree

By Harry Peacock (9/18/1873-4/4/1942)
- Last day of school 1890

In the following essay we will endeavor to assume the character of an oak tree. And although this may be imagined, we can learn a good morale from it.

My first recollection is swaying back and forth in the breeze on the boughs of my ancestor (who was situated in Jericho cemetery) in the form of an acorn. This I enjoyed a great deal and am sorry to say was boastful of my position. But you know the boast must have a fall, and I being one of them shared their fate. My fall being from my position in the tree to the ground underneath my hitherto protector. There I lay grumbling at my position til a settler passing through the then dense forest trampled on me and pushed me into the soil. Everything around me now was dark. This not being agreeable to me, my ambition led me to put forth all my efforts to change my situation, and I soon found myself coming to the surface in the form of an oak sprout.

And as time changes everything, so did it me for it was not long til I was changed from an oak sprout to a flourishing young tree, thus being able again to behold all objects around me. A few short years, and half the adjoining trees in the forest were hewn down. And not long afterwards a church house was built. Methinks even now I can see the good old church members going to and fro from the before mentioned house. Nothing can erase from my memory thoughts of the grey headed fathers and the tottering forms of the mothers. Many, yes many of them sleep the silent sleep of death beneath my boughs. The swaying of my branches over their moldering dust, only makes the memory of them more distinct. Perhaps a hunter would pass by little thinking that hid among my branches was a squirrel, or perchance a sly old coon peered out of the hollow of one of my limbs. Scarce could I awake from my reverie of what had passed til the merry voice and light footsteps of the children would be heard beneath my boughs. How happy they would seem as they gathered my acorns from off the ground. But listen! Their merry laugh must be hushed, for what is that slow moving procession coming in the distance. As it nears, I recognize a funeral procession. The open grave, the weeping people, and the slow tread of the horses made even I feel sad and lonely with them, as I swayed my branches over the yawning grave. Oft has a group of boys enjoyed a game of marbles or hat ball beneath my branches. Many are the initials that boys have cut in my bark. The initials of those that boys alone can guess. Many are the songs that a cheery maid has sung to me, and oft have I list to the sweet thrilling music of a gay young bird. But all of a sudden his joyous notes would be hushed, for flying down on him would be a hawk who would forever silence the little warbler. On many a night, when the wind has stirred every twig on my branches, and made every leaf flutter, an owl has disturbed the silence by his hooting, Beautiful scenerys have appeared and faded before my view. I have watched the eclipse of the Sun and Moon, both total, and partial. I have seen the heavens set with stars who poured their little rays of light upon my leaves. Numerous are the times that my thickly set boughs have given refuge during a storm. The birds and animals of all kinds would flock to me, and perhaps a group of hunters or a passerby would stand underneath my branches til the shower or storm was over. After all storms comes the sunshine, so would it then for each sun ray, it seemed, would see which could shine the most brilliantly on my leaves, making them glitter like precious gems, and cheering everything in general. Numerous are the times on a hot summer day that a passing stranger would long for a rest in the shadows of my branches. Oft on a clear summer's eve, have a couple of lovers strolled beneath my boughs, chatting merrily over nothing and noticing all of natures wondrous beauties. Scarce would I realize that the last metioned were gone, til a staggering inebriate would pass me by throwing his drained bottle on the ground. Perhaps his poor mother, wife, or sister at home were watching and waiting patiently for the erring one. Hardly would the thoughts of the inebriate be erased from my memory til a poor, weary, ragged ,footsore traveler would come trudging along, with no food to appease or money to buy rainment for his body. This poor traveler is called a tramp. Yet could you list to his history, you would be ashamed that he was so nicknamed.

As the years have passed and my surroundings have changed; two schoolhouses have been built within the reach of my observation. The first was built on the same side of the road that I myself stand upon. It was frame, but not so large as the latter one. This did good service in its day til the other took its place, and a larger and more convenient [school] it was. Oh! the children that have passed their school in these buildings. Could I but follow them on through life; even their history alone would fill volumes. But no more will I hear their merry songs and joyous shouts. No more will they play beneath my branches. No, never again will my twigs be used to shade their beautiful forms, for many of them like the players have gone to other fields. Many have been plucked by the ruthless hand of the schoolmaster to bring the wayward urchin back to the paths of rectitude. No more will the world seem so gay to me for the children's merry laughs will never again sound in the area that surrounds me, for the school house is moved, never to return. Kind people, if I only had time to give you a history in full of all the sights I have seen and that have transpired during my life, you could behold beautiful pictures, scenes of desolation, scenes of death, scenes of joy, and scenes of sorrow revealed, even if it was told to you by an old oak tree.